O Poetry, poetry, wherefore art thou complex?
Tis but thy terms that are my enemy:
Thou art thyself, though not prosody.
What's prosody? It is nor hand nor foot,
Nor arm nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O be some other term!
What's in a poem? That which we call prosody
By any other name would smell as sweet;
Ugh...thee enjambment of brain cells
Thy meter of rhythm, no sense of closure
So poetry would, were it not poetry call'd,
Retain that dear insight which it oweth.
A twist [From Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, 1594]
J. DeBellis 8/31/09
Mind Wide Open
Lost in translation are the fragments of this beautiful life.
I like your journal words
ReplyDeleteboiled in quilted waves
laying beats and spaces
in the foot of dance.
I imagine your floor
littered with discarded prosody
the parings of filigree self
dissolving into spirit.
As I slumbered, I dreamt of prosody -
ReplyDeleteSuch wild, imaginative thoughts indeed.
The lift and fall of rhythmic meter
danced enjambled diction in harmony
I wish, at present, I could conjure.
On rising, was left with impression
of such as a toasted celebration:
Antithesis lines blur in memoir.